


Medium

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: Lost
Genre: Angst, Apologies, Established Relationship, Killing, Kissing, M/M, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Shooting, Touching, trickery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 23:45:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15351426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: Locke has Miles under lock and key. When Locke finds out what Miles is good at, he asks him to channel the spirit of dead lover, Boone. But his captive prisoner is smarter than that and, despite doing what is asked of him, he times it wisely to make his escape. Even though - we all know - you should never meddle in people's love affairs if you can help it.





	Medium

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic. Posted in 2008 to Livejournal.
> 
> Written for the 'new characters' prompt at the 'lostficchallenge' community.

"Why should I tell you what I do for a living?" Miles averted his gaze; his arms were heavy and tied above his head - after ditching his struggle, he merely moved like a crying infant on a playground swing. He'd never been beaten before. And now he was being bombarded with questions which he shouldn't have to answer.

"Oh, show some _backbone_ ," the bald man batted him around, pawed at him like a lion torturing his prey, before straightening him up, "It's hardly going to make any difference, is it?"

It wasn't as if Miles had expected any less from this John Locke character. They'd been briefed of his defiance, his madness and rebellion - he'd killed Naomi by the way of flying dagger, and he'd seen it all motioned in one swift, light touch. Having being notified of Locke's whereabouts, Straume had known to tread carefully and - to be honest - he really _hadn't._ He'd been swapped like a trading card and now was foolish enough to find himself hanging by chafed wrists, clicking and cracking from the strain, held by billhooks from a creaky ceiling. Mission _failed._ He should have known not to have trusted the Iraqi.

He might as well tell John everything, he thought, as there seemed no other way around this. "I'm a," he stammered, the onlooker urging him to go on, "I'm a psychic - I talk to the dead... That's why I was picked to come here," It sounded strange alright, but _strange_ came with the territory ever since their helicopter had landed on the island. And he was clearly making an impression.

Locke's eyes widened with curiosity, "Did you just say what I thought you said?"

At _last,_ a method of contacting his beloved. He couldn't have been sure that his self-induced vision wasn't a figment of his own imagination. So here was a _real_ chance to confess his love, to do what he'd thought about so often but had been too much of a coward to act upon it. So much had happened since Boone had passed; he'd sided with the others, shunned the main group and quashed all hope of rescue - in the name of common good, you must understand. But the boy would forgive him. Yes, he would, _wouldn't_ he? John vowed not to get too excited over this. It could have been a trick. However, for that rare opportunity to connect with Boone, he was willing to speak out. It was a matter of _needing_ to know.

"I'd like you to channel somebody for me," he asked.

"Who?" the small sound of a question rose up between them, absorbed by the walls and absence of any proper foundations in this unknown, isolated cellar. The ghostly presence in here alone was sending Straume's sensors haywire.

"A friend," was the wholly expected reply.

Where "What kind of a friend?" was the million-dollar query.

You didn't need to be able to read minds when reading expressions worked just as well. "A lover," Locke amended. But Miles had already guessed. It was written all over his face. This was a new experience for him - he'd been clearing spirits for years, for money, drugs and all kinds of underground activity - but a torturer and someone so seemingly cruel as John Locke was obviously _tortured_ himself; tortured by all of the words he had never been able to say to his now dead lover. Straume had become an agony aunt, it seemed.

"I'm going to need something personal - an item of clothing..."  
  
With no further prompting, Locke lifted a set of silver dog tags from under his shirt and around his neck, hidden from view. He'd been wearing them ever since he'd carried Carlyle from that biplane. Boone wasn't an army man, but a pool lifeguard once. Whether or not Miles knew that fell entirely to the veracity of his ability. The chain itself was for identification if he ever drowned (though he tried to _ignore_ the time he nearly did - Jack's healing hands may have saved him, but he had no cure for Locke's jealousy in his doctor's bag). In the end, they had served no purpose; sadly John had been there when Boone had died, already knowing too well who he was. He would _never_ forget. John slowly passed the article on. But it wouldn't be as simple as all that, the then-hostage decided.

"Let me go," he said, "and I'll find his soul." He drove a hard bargain, thought the hunter. The restraints were cut from his arms, leaving them sore, with round rings of rust-like marks left as memento of what he'd suffered. He closed his eyes to block out the thin chink of light coming in from the warehouse-windows and _pretended_ to concentrate on the item he'd just been given.  
  
Locke observed him as he thrashed around the place, the presence of his former partner entering, perhaps _unwittingly_ invading his body. With a fit and a jerk he then overcame all of the ticks. Colours could barely be distinguished in this dark but, in one breath, John could have sworn that Miles' harsh eyes had turned a shade of pale grey. He stood so still and gradually came to, as if he'd been napping or having a short sleep. And maybe, in _some_ way, he had. But he was awake now and brought from the afterlife's rest.

"Is that you, Boone?" he whispered, tentatively.

"I've missed you, John," 'Boone' sighed, throwing his head aside, "I've wanted to tell you - you aren't wrong - none of this is _your_ fault." In saying this, Miles had stuck to the bare minimum of information, avoiding being fully taken over by Carlyle's aura. He had hoped to be able to guide his way in and out of Boone's soul, choosing to his advantage, what information to disclose. The pain of the young man's past flashed through his brain, and he felt he'd gained familiarity with Boone Carlyle where rather he didn't want to have. He wondered what kind of a relationship they'd had. And would _he_ have enjoyed being hogtied, he thought, with some irony.

"Ah, I knew you'd return," John beamed, "Wouldn't leave me here to hold the fort on my own... Wouldn't betray your old pal," Love may conquer, but it can also be blinding, if used as an attack mechanism. Straume was using John's love for Boone against him, but - believe me - that was a very dangerous game to play. Ask the cheaters, the rats and the adulterers what messing around with the greatest force of all did for them.

He gently put his fingers to what he visualised as Carlyle's face, caressing coarse, pitted Asian skin, and mistaking it for his handsome ex. And when Miles brought John's hand along the front his bulletproof vest and into his cargo pants, John felt so _special -_ as if he was taking Boone's virginity or something, as they hadn't yet _been_ there as a couple. So while Locke groped and squeezed, the visitor plotted ahead. "God I love you," 'Boone' gasped, hardly forgetting how his rope burns were stinging. Miles knew just how to seal this - with a kiss. He met mouths with his captor but, instead of initiating the soft, subtle kisses he'd become used to, he chomped on Locke's lip with his teeth in a bid to escape.

"You bastard," the older man turned on him, "I'll make you pay for what you've done!" There was diplomatic quality that normally set John apart from the rest. For some reason, he couldn't quite find it right now, no matter how hard he delved. Retracting the handgun he'd brought from under his belt, he'd removed the safety and fired before he gave himself the chance to think. _That_ was _that_. The chrome casing clinked as it clipped the floor, bounced a little on the ground with accomplishment. And _do_ let it be known that protective jackets do very little for holes in the head at close range.

Locke realised that he was running out of answers and, with Ben _refusing_ to point out where he'd been going wrong, killing the cleverest of the 'rescue' team wasn't the brightest idea he'd had. Maybe now he'd _never_ know the truth. But some things were worth giving all of that up for - Boone's memory, _especially._


End file.
